


Losing Ground

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's not just that Merlin has been getting better with a sword, it's that Arthur has been... distracted.</i> Written May 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Ground

**losing ground  
(a tale in which Arthur Pendragon is a bit of an idiot and Merlin is oh so very smart)**

  


  
**I.**   


Merlin's blade gets too close for Arthur's comfort in that last blow, and for his pride.

Fight, even training, demands a clarity of purpose that blocks any other sense out. Arthur knows this, he hones the art to perfection, to the point of feeling a water-cool carcass sometimes, muscles and joints and tendons become levels, poles, rope, him a mechanical thing, pure negation of the blood, of the soul, as it were. When Arthur fights, he becomes perfect. Hollow.

To win a fight, even a mock one, even in training, requires to see only the geometrical shapes in the enemy, it means you say this is my arm, this is my sword, this is his arm, this is sword. Something simple and difficult, everything in between a threat.

Arthur loses for the first time to Merlin because suddenly Merlin has thin wrists, the skin so transparent and Arthur so close when Merlin blocks a blow from his left, Arthur can see, for a lightning-strike moment, the blue veins, the blood running, careless to its own frailty, under paleness and a soft layer of hair.

It's not just that Merlin has been getting better at this – everybody is trying their best, trying to perfect their skills, whatever that means, since as the summer draws to an end the rumours of war from the north draw closer and closer to Camelot. So Merlin can stand on his feet now and give a decent blow, thanks to Arthur's guidance mostly, his teaching, the evenings of cool breeze but resilient sunlight the two of them spent outside castle walls, Arthur teaching Merlin how to put his fingers around the hilt, correcting the movement of his hips, breathing down the boy's neck until he got it perfect – or as perfect as one could expect from a servant.

But it's not just that. No.

Arthur's been... distracted, in his training sessions with Merlin.

Distracted is not the word, Arthur knows. Arthur doesn't have a word for what is. Or if he has, he is too afraid to use it. But again _afraid_ is not the word. It's something else.

Now he really is distracted, and Merlin sees a crack in his perfect defence.

The blade passes by him, not half an inch from his chest and if it were sharp enough, Arthur could hear it hissing – it's not dangerous, Merlin _didn't_ intent it to be dangerous, they are just playing as it were, and they are using used, worn, almost-blunted swords, just in case.

`Not bad. Uh?´ Merlin says, breathless, but smirking.

Arthur says nothing.

Arthur is angry, but still, distracted.

Merlin doesn't give him a moment's respite – Arthur taught him that, he should be proud – and tries to land the next blow. Still smirking. Arthur has expected Merlin to gloat some more, is still distracted, a combination of both, and in trying to avoid the other boy's hit he takes a step backwards, trips a little, tries to rectify his position and in turn loses balance. Arthur finds himself sitting on the ground, sitting on his butt, his ankle slightly sprained, staring stupidly at Merlin.

Then, further wonders. Merlin – Arthur thinks he might have taught him a little too good, and never stopped to notice his progress – does not wait for him to recover, he draws his sword near Arthur's throat.

`Beg for mercy?´ Merlin says, happily.

Arthur frowns.

So he's lost. _To Merlin_ , of all people. He stands up, too fast for Merlin, and grabs the sword out of Merlin's hands (thin wrists), takes it away from him. Merlin opens his mouth a bit, as if to protest.

`We're done,´ Arthur says, and he starts to walk up the hill to the castle.

Merlin takes a moment to process what is happening and trails after Arthur, tripping and almost falling himself, but merry and careless.

“Being such a bad loser is not very regal, sire,´ Merlin tries to tease but Arthur doesn't raise to the bait.

Arthur is lost in his own thoughts on the short way back, carrying the two swords himself – he is certainly not thinking about Merlin's wrists, no.

He is thinking: _this won't do_.

 **II.**

Then-

For a couple of days Arthur barely talks to him.

Merlin imagined there'd be repercussions to his victory in the training battle. Arthur is like that, not very prince-like that is, if you ask Merlin, likely to hold a little grudge for something like that. It's not like Merlin has ever won before, Arthur should let him enjoy it a bit.

At least Merlin has anticipated Arthur would be in a bad mood for a while but this is ridiculous.

This feels like something else.

The days feel lengthened somehow; Merlin grows anxious in a routine punctuated by Arthur's silence.

The ordinary weight of that silence; a body still unsettled in his own person, Merlin. A pile of dishes on the table, Merlin's fingertips aching, his lips longing for an incantation, an easy way out. Arthur, avoiding him. Morning chores. Merlin recites the parts of sword, not knowing why. Something itches underneath his skin, no, _on_ his skin.

He thinks again, this is because I won the fight. But. No. Arthur is a prat, but he is not that petty. He would get mad for a couple of hours but he wouldn't hold a grudge. There's this whole deal about him, the honour thing, that Merlin likes against his will. Merlin likes. The dirty dishes still on the table. Magic throbbing inside, searching for a way out. A day of counting clouds from Gwen's window, bored, realizing the grey of the sky matches the grey of Camelot's walls. What can that mean? Arthur looking away when they cross each other on the patio, Arthur talking to the younger knight-apprentices, _that's the way you hold a shield, this way you won't be able to see your enemy and-_ The smell of hay, of dried up, crushed wood. Arthur's voice a bit shrill, emotionless, but Merlin is two steps out of reach now. Morgana's blue dress. The sound of the well, of dripping along the surface of the bucket. He takes the water to Gaius. Arthur's absence. This morning. This whole morning. The feeling something is off. A scratch from last night, on Merlin's hand, opens all of the sudden. Merlin sucks the blood, like a little boy. Gaius watching from the other side of the room.

No Arthur.

Arthur's silence. Arthur looking away. Arthur's silence.

Again, the feeling something's off. A warm, slippery, ugly feeling.

Gaius tells him to stop pacing.

`Can you think of something I've done to offend Arthur?´ Merlin finally asks.

`I can think of many things,´ Gaius replies, not looking up from his books.

`Gaius.´

Merlin wishes his voice hasn't sounded so shaky, just now.

Gaius sighs, glances up at Merlin with a pitiful expression behind the glasses.

`Why don't you go ask Arthur himself?´

Merlin rolls his eyes. Talk to Arthur. What a ridiculous idea. That's not the way you do these things.

 **III.**

`With the current events... Do you think this it the time to go hunting?´

He can see why Uther would not be pleased by his decision. Arthur has drills in the morning, but there's more to it. These are uncertain times. Skirmishes with neighbour kingdoms grow more frequent by the day. Uther is probably uneasy about Arthur going alone. He is probably worried.

`It's something I got to do,´ Arthur tells him, voice as gentle as he can.

Uther puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

`You've been acting strangely lately. Is there something on your mind?´

Arthur looks up; for a moment sees himself through his father's eyes, if he could see what Arthur really was. What goes through his mind. That's why he has to leave for a couple of days, put some distance, tame his blood.

He shakes his head.

`Don't worry. I just have to clear my mind. I'll be back in a couple of days.´

`Very well,´ Uther says – he lets him be. He's giving Arthur more and more leeway these days. Arthur is beginning to think either Uther is growing old or he thinks Arthur is actually alright. `But be sure to bring back some big game, son.´

 **IV.**

Merlin finds him raiding the cupboards, putting food in his satchel.

`What are you doing?´ he asks.

Arthur jumps a bit, curiously surprised, Merlin expected more of someone who has been trained to kill since birth. He sees Merlin and his eyes widen a bit, as if he weren't expecting that at all.

He goes back to preparing his baggage, takes his time to reply.

`Can't you see what I'm doing?´

But his voice is flat.

And now that he thinks about it, Merlin realizes it's been a long time since Arthur spoke to him with his old murderous intent, his teasing. Some time ago and he would have threaten Merlin with fifty lashes merely for sneaking up on him.

Merlin somehow misses the unruly tone of voice that Arthur sometimes used and that meant “I could have you executed any day”. When was the last occasion he had told Merlin to clean his boots with a sneer on his face? He spends less and less time each day torturing unsuspecting manservants and though Merlin doesn't miss Arthur's full-time commitment to being a bully, it is a bit unsettling, a bit sad to watch him grow, bit by bit, and not grow up but finally grow old. Merlin somehow feels like his own bones are stretching, a pain of white cells and calcium.

`You're going somewhere?´ Merlin tries again.

`I'm going hunting.´

`Big?´

`Yes.´

`Let me get my things then.´

Merlin starts walking towards the door. Arthur's voice stops him.

`No. I'm going alone.´

Merlin frowns, not really getting it.

`Don't be daft,´ he says.

Arthur doesn't even bother turning around and Merlin wonders what was the last time Arthur looked him in the eye. What the hell is happening here? Maybe Gaius is right. Maybe he should _just talk_ to Arthur. He draws a long breath and tries that way.

`Have I done something-?´

`Good night, Merlin,´ Arthur cuts Merlin, walking past him.

Now his tone, it leaves no room for protest, it's final.

Merlin is left alone in the room, in the dark.

 **V.**

He remembers this place.

The woods are dark as blood, the bits of sunlight that somehow manage to come through trickle down branches and trunks and leaves, languishingly. Close enough to Camelot to be safe, but big enough to shelter a man for days, if he wants to stay away from the world. Arthur us counting on that, counting on trees and damp soil to keep a secret for a while.

The forest is known but made unfamiliar by absence. He remembers coming here as a little boy, with his father, the bow and the arblast in tow, he remembers his father's big hands, teaching him, the days Arthur became a perfect hunter because nothing less than _perfect_ would suffice when it comes to Uther. Arthur wonders if he and his father have ever had an uncomplicated day in their lives. He can't remember such thing, not even then, in his childhood, when Uther taught him the secrets of listening to footsteps on the grass, the virtue of evening one's breathing when stalking the nervous stag.

Arthur has heard this part of the forest to be a good hunting spot still – he passed very few travellers on the way here. Here a man can get lost, alone with the trees and his own bow and his prey.

But today he feels as if he is alone in these parts, completely alone, like he's never felt before. No sounds of animals or birds. But Arthur knows that's not true – they are around him, he just can't hear them. His blood, pounding in his head, throbbing, is what's blocking any other sensation.

For half a day Arthur walks in circles, through the imagined pathways of the forest, not even trying to trail any game at all. Not even pretending to. He wonders if his horse is bothered at all but this idleness, this pointless wandering around.

Arthur doesn't even notice the sun setting until he is shivering.

He sets up camp and a little fire for the night, feeling for the first time since he left a castle a bit calmer. Not as calm as he'd hope to be. This is not working. In making the fire -there's a horrible dampness here, not so much dry wood to get hold of, and it takes him a while- he burns his fingers a little, for a moment, again distracted.

He is still so angry he could cry. When he sits down the flames from the fire warm his skin, bringing memories of familiar rooms, faces. Friendship. More than anything he wishes he could be Merlin's friend again. He didn't appreciate the easiness of their manners, the banter between them, until something of that was lost. Until simply having a conversation with Merlin was a struggle beyond Arthur's strength.

Desire puts a wall between. A distance, a distinction. For how could Merlin be his friend now, that now he knows, how could he be his friend, not with that line of jaw, not with those eyes, not that smile. Awareness put an end to that, their friendship. He knows that now.

He's said it now, if only in his mind, if only in this absolute darkness, briefly painted in tongues of flame-orange. _Desire_. Arthur hates the whole language for making it all come down to that word.

Something doesn't feel right about it, it's not enough.

There are stories of men consorting men. But he is not like that. The linguistic betrays him. He _can't_ be like that is what he thinks. He's always liked women. He's always liked staring at Morgana's chest and Gwen's lips when they are not noticing him. He remembers Sophia with a flash of regret and shame.

(then: the memory of being underwater, heavy like sorrow, Merlin's hands pulling him out, his feeble arms and his stubbornness, the memory of learning how to breathe again)

There are things he knows. He is Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, son of- Blood with blood, that's what his father has said once, his eyes clouded remembering something from childhood for which he has no words. Camelot was built on Roman blood.

It is not only a sin, it's worse: it's weakness. And that's worse.

 **VI.**

`Stop moping,´ Gwen tells him, sharing a lunch with him and Gaius. That's been happening a lot lately, whenever she doesn't have to tend to Morgana's needs at lunchtime. Gwen is alone in the world and Merlin and Gaius are only too happy to have her over.

Merlin shifts uncomfortably in his chair, feeling Gaius' amused glance on him.

`Am not moping,´ he says, but half-heartedly.

Something is bothering him. Something more than Arthur's absence – once upon a time he'd say to himself, _miss him? That's ridiculous_ but unfortunately he's grown so much smarter than that.

`Yes, you are,´ Gwen protests. `You are moping because Arthur didn't take you with him on his trip.´

Merlin makes an strangled noise, between a chuckle and a sneer.

`That's ridiculous,´ he mutters.

One thing is how smart he is, another very different thing is _other people_.

 **VII.**

He wakes up from an uneasy dream decided to make the day count, if only because he promised his father to bring something back home. He hopes for a deer but some rabbits will do.

The thing about rabbits is that you have to trust your peripheral vision, the trick of it in the subtle rustle of leaves and small-boned noises.

`Ha ha. Got you,´ Arthur says to himself when he sees the green and soft brown of a bush shake in front of him.

He heeds his horse to stay behind while he walks on, towards his prey.

But it's not a rabbit hiding behind those plants, no. Arthur hears the groaning noise with shock and stays there, rooted to the ground, as the wild boar comes out of it and starts running towards him.

Taken by surprise -and really, he should be stripped of his title, Arthur has time to think, _idiot_ , surprised by a silly boar, a wild filthy animal having the upper hand over a prince- Arthur backs quickly, too quickly, his right foot -his sprained ankle from the fight with Merlin- tripping over a small stone just waiting in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If this was a battle, he thinks in mid-fall, he would have been killed, if this were an enemy and not an stupid boar, he'd be dead, such incompetence.

He didn't realize that in this patch of green, under the brown leaves and wild weeds on the ground there were rocks scattered and broken, fallen branches from the trees. Arthur falls with all his weight, trying to get away from the boar, and shoulder first, on the latter, the crooked end of one of those branches piercing and entering his arm.

The pain is so acute, so pervasive of everything Arthur is and feels in this moment, that it seems to him it might never stop. A never-ending, sharp pain. For a moment it feels as if Death has come to claim him, because no one should be able to experience this much pain and survive. Arthur has always considered himself quite capable of enduring wounds and blows but for a moment he thinks he cannot go on, this time. His thoughts turn white. His thoughts turn to death and survival and there's a bitter taste in his mouth. His thought become rapid, images flashing across his eyes with no regard to the landscape that surrounds him.

He is paralyzed, his body strangely curious to this pain, muscles wrapping around the foreign object, blooding rushing to meet the wound, to its release. He is not in mortal danger, Arthur knows this, and later he will call it a scratch, nothing, but in that first moment panic gets hold of his limbs and his mind – a strange longing surfacing through it all (the pain, the shame, the woods, the wild animal, the reason he came here in the first time): the longing to be something else, something not-Arthur Pendragon, perhaps something new, something old like the heart, something sprung from Uther's age but something that does not belong to Uther's age, something not confined, not walled, not castle, more like this forest, instinctive, skin-deep, _I know why I came here_ Arthur thinks through the pain, _Merlin_ he mutters, because of the pain.

Then he hears it; the boar, running across Arthur's little camp and towards his horse.

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, willing the world to bend to his wishes and avoid the unavoidable. But no, he hears his horse, scared, galloping away, the sounds of its breathing and its hooves against the ground quickly drowned by the forest, by the distance between the animal and Arthur.

`Idiot,´ he murmurs, not knowing quite so well who he is saying it to, the horse or himself, or even to Merlin, miles away.

Fortunately -a small mercy- the boar seems to run away as well, Arthur's hand is already poised on the blade hidden in his boot but that won't be necessary.

Very promptly, in case he loses his resolve, or more blood, Arthur breathes deeply, like it's the last time he is ever going to do it, and removes the thin branch from his arm.

He passes out.

He lies there for a while, awake now, dots of sunlight fugitives among the treetops and under his eyelids. He feels the blood in his arm flow free slower and slower until it stops – he feels dizzy, he swears he can hear his own blood drying on his skin.

He remember a dinner conversation with his father and Morgana. `You should be closer to nature,´ she had said and Uther had shaken his head. `Only women and druids can say that sort of thing,´ he had said, undecided which one was worse. Only Morgana and Merlin shared this wild trust for the countryside, Morgana because she has lived between stone walls all her life and Merlin because for him it's very much home, the hills and the shapes of the clouds in the sky.

He somehow doubts this is what Morgana had in mind.

Too weak to move still, too tired maybe, Arthur thinks what a coward he is.

What a selfish coward.

Merlin won his first training battle and Arthur didn't even have the decency to congratulate him.

How proud he's grown of Merlin, because Merlin is brave in a way that Arthur can never hope to be. Arthur was born being brave and so never had to make any effort in bravery, while Merlin has known ordinary fear and conquered it.

And maybe Merlin is right after all – maybe _he is_ a prat.

He's been one lately, that's for sure; self-awareness is not a virtue to be widely admired in a king (Uther has proven that) and for a moment Arthur wishes he hadn't acquired it these last past years. Knowing Merlin, he is probably blaming himself right now, thinking he's offended Arthur somehow.

Arthur wishes he could explain it to him – it's not his fault.

The flawed materials Arthur seems to be made of, that's not Merlin's fault at all.

But Arthur doesn't have the words to explain it to himself, much as he wishes he had them for Merlin.

Arthur wishes _many things_.

In the end he somehow crawls his way out of the woods, limping, with the branches of trees and bushes raising scratches and bruises on his face, his hands. Daylight is gone soon and an end-of-summer dampness settles in its absence. Arthur's clothes get wet, heavy with mist and dried blood. Adrenaline rises and falls with each step. Only when he sees the lights of Camelot his breathing slows down a little bit.

The lights of Camelot, like little guiding stars on a dark sky. A sense of calm and warmth come from its walls. Arthur inhales deeply, takes the feeling of _coming back_ in – a stupid wild boar and he could have died. He imagines, inside the castle, the people he loves, Morgana and his father at the dinner table, arguing probably, Gwen taking care of the last chores, setting Morgana's clothes for tomorrow aside, their finery over an empty chair; Gaius with an open book, telling the idiot of Merlin to clean up the mess in his room, and the idiot of Merlin-

All the people Arthur loves are inside those walls.

Everything he loves.

He loves-

 **VIII.**

Merlin does not hear him enter the kitchens but he's been anxious and irritable all day and once the slight shock of Arthur somehow creeping up on him dissolves what's left is a strange sense of relief, just seeing Arthur there, in front of him, as Merlin puts the half-washed pots aside.

`Did you manage to not die or get kidnapped while I was away?´ Arthur asks.

Merlin smiles. That's more like it. The Arthur of old (the one he's missed).

He lift one finger dramatically, making Arthur wait for the answer.

`Prepare to be surprised but yes. And you, did you kill any mythical creature? Any puppy?´

But then Merlin stops and notices the state of Arthur. Blood leaps to his throat in a familiar sense of apprehension. The panic lasts a moment – Arthur is after all, here, alive, very much on his feet so no imminent danger must assail him. But it's enough to make his mouth go dry in a moment, fear quickening his pulse.

`What has happened to you?´ He asks, _demands_.

Arthur shrugs, walking up to him to take a cup of water from the table besides Merlin.

Merlin can smell mud and blood on him.

`A hunting accident,´ Arthur explains.

The wound on his arm alarms Merlin a bit, one sleeve of his shirt covered in dark red and brown. Dear lord, how much blood has he lost, Merlin wonders and realizes he is angry with Arthur, the idiot.

`You are a mess,´ he tells him in a harsh tone.

`Nothing's badly hurt. Just my pride.´

`Oh, you have tons of that. Unlike, as it seems, your blood.´

`It's alright.´

Merlin moves in, grabbing Arthur's arm carefully, trying to examine the extent of the damage, feverishly recalling Gaius' books and drawings of the human body.

`Let me see. Gaius has been teaching me medici-´

`Don't touch me!´

Arthur breaks free, shaking Merlin off hastily.

Merlin knows there's something _definitely_ wrong here.

`But-´

Arthur shoves him away, throwing Merlin against the wall. It's not too forceful but Merlin has never known Arthur to be this needlessly violent with him.

`How dare you touch me without permission? You! A mere servant,´ Arthur screams at him.

That's when Merlin notices Arthur's hands, in a fist, shaking.

`What the hell is the matter with you? You're again acting like a huge prat.´

Arthur shakes his head very slowly, as if that simple gesture were costing him all his nerve.

`You cannot talk to me like that,´ in a warning voice.

`I can, because _you are_ an idiot.´

And that's it then.

Merlin suddenly realized Arthur hasn't been looking at him in the eye, all this time, and now he does. And the look he is giving Merlin is – well, Merlin is ashamed to admit it but it is a frightening look. For a moment he expects Arthur to hit him and his body instinctively contracts waiting for the blow. In retrospect he will think That's so silly, obviously that's not what was going on. But right now Merlin is just scared like a little boy. And he would deserve it, too. There's just so many times you can call a crowned prince a “prat” without retribution.

Arthur does not hit him.

Instead: Arthur grabs Merlin by the collar and stares at him for what seems a tortuous long time. Then he shoves him again until Merlin collides against the wall, and it hurts, and he is about to protest but something about the way Arthur fists Merlin's shirt in his hand makes him stop the words for long enough that Arthur closes whatever distance remains between his bodies and takes Merlin's lips with his.

It's quite simple, really. Stupidly so.

A kiss. But it is surprising enough that Merlin just stands there, mouth forming a silent _Oh_ under Arthur and Arthur's mouth and Arthur's lips and - _Oh_.

Merlin has considered many possibilities.

Not this one.

Maybe he is not so smart after all.

 **IX.**

That's it, Arthur thinks, walking, rushing, stopping short of _running_ to his rooms. There seems to be no one up in the castle right now and each footstep fall and echo with a finality Arthur almost welcomes. Finality, that's what it is. And it's a relief, Arthur believes, his heart still growing larger than his ribs can stand, his whole body weak with the aftershock of panic (and yes, alright, now just _thinking_ about it, he can feel himself hard and he adjusts his trousers carefully as he walks).

At least it's all over now. _All over_ was written on the horrified expression in Merlin's face when Arthur pulled away. Arthur now remembers how Merlin's lips looked a bit redder than normal when- No, there's no thinking that now. Ever again. Nor how Merlin tasted. Nor how Arthur could feel the shape of the roof of his mouth when he run his tongue over its curve.

None of that now.

As Arthur locks the door to his bedroom behind him he starts thinking about the practicalities. Merlin can't stay, obviously. The boy will want to leave his service, no doubt. He might want to leave Camelot altogether. How Merlin must hate him now. How disgusted he must be with Arthur. Don't worry, Merlin, I can do that for both of us, Arthur thinks, realizing he is calm, finally, calmer than he's been in months. The kind of peace only hopelessness brings.

He must secure a good job for Merlin. He deserves it. He must make sure he never tells anyone. No one can ever know, specially not Uther. Merlin must be granted whatever he wishes. Arthur is not above bribery in this case. He must think of the practicalities, now that everything it's over.

Arthur also wishes his body would help a bit, instead of insisting on remembering Merlin's mouth, the feel of his collarbone as Arthur inadvertently brushed one finger over it as he grabbed hold of Merlin's shirt.

A knock on his door.

He knows.

He also knows a million reasons not to answer it.

The one he has for opening the door seems to win the battle anyway.

Merlin.

`You are an idiot,´ the boy greets him.

Arthur decides to try indignation as self-defence again.

`I told you, you cannot use that tone with me.´

But Merlin doesn't seem one bit frightened by his tone. He is actually smiling, the idiot. Arthur is confused about that. He also thinks he likes Merlin smile a lot and how that is the worst of times to be thinking that. He must come up with a plan.

`And I told you,´ Merlin says, looking calmer than Arthur feels right now. `You are an idiot. And I happen to be a very smart person.´

Arthur sighs, but leaves room enough so that Merlin slips past him and into the room.

Arthur knows he should protest, makes an effort to do so but Merlin paces around the room as if he _owned it_ and the only answer Arthur comes up with is locking the door behind him. He feels very old all of the sudden.

`You are the stupidest person that has ever lived,´ repeats.

Arthur walks to him, shaking his head.

`Hey. Should I remind you I'm the prince?´

Merlin grins and grabs Arthur by the neck of his shirt, imitating Arthur's movements earlier.

And Arthur must be a better teacher than he thought because somehow Merlin manages to wrestle Arthur down and win, and when did Merlin became so observant and cunning, because he kicks Arthur's injured ankle and that's it, Arthur loses footing once again and somehow finds himself on his back, on his bed, with Merlin pining him down _easily_ and breathing into his face.

Merlin is still smiling.

`Then you are the stupidest prince that has ever lived,´ he says almost sweetly.

And then he leans into Arthur and slowly puts his lips over Arthur's mouth and suddenly Arthur is aware of every muscle in his body reacting to the touch and the anger and shame and tiredness of the last past days washes over him until he is soft and powerless, a defeated animal.

Merlin takes a long time kissing him, none of the harshness and desperation of Arthur's kiss in it; Merlin kisses him like he's been thinking about it for a long time. Arthur doesn't understand. He doesn't understand _at all_. He just knows something it's breaking and he thinks it might be him. Merlin straddles him, half-sitting on him, but somehow light, careful, his hands holding Arthur down by his wrists but loose enough that Arthur could free himself any time he wanted to. He wonders about this. What is Merlin trying to say with that.

Against his will Arthur makes a low, falling sound and Merlin breaks the kiss, searching Arthur's face, expression like a question mark. He is not holding Arthur anymore, but he is not letting go either.

`I was afraid you were going to hate me,´ Arthur says, simply.

 **X.**

Oh, what an idiot, Merlin thinks, not for the first time and surely not for the last, as he removes Arthur's boots and tosses them carelessly on the ground. He is not Arthur's servant right now, who cares.

But really, what a stupid prat. He's been fantastically nonsensical and this would all be funny if it weren't... well, just silly.

`Merlin... You cannot tell anyone of this. Not a living soul.´

Arthur is doing that voice again. Merlin secretly likes when Arthur talks to him as if he were ten years older than Merlin, as if they weren't the same age, it's annoying, yes, and patronizing, but it also betrays a wild protectiveness that Merlin, somehow against his better judgement, craves.

`Don't worry, I'm good with secrets.´

He is busy undoing Arthur's trousers and he is quite surprised at how little modesty he finds he himself has when the moment finally comes. Maybe it's because he's been thinking about this moment, this sort of _nakedness_ , for a long time.

Oh, he is such an idiot and I am so smart, Merlin thinks, feeling terribly smug.

`You're horrible with secrets,´ Arthur protests.

`Shows how much you know. I'm _brilliant_ with secrets.´

He gives Arthur a long, thorough kiss for that, as if to make a point. Arthur still has to learn to overcome the shock of Merlin kissing him before he starts kissing back but it's okay for now, Merlin likes the way his mouth half-opens in surprise, giving Merlin more room to explore, brush his tongue over Arthur's lips, watch the way they tremble under his touch, so un-princely of Arthur.

`But anyway, I don't think _you_ will able to keep this a secret,´ Merlin says arrogantly.

`Why is that?´ Arthur frowns.

`Because you love me.´

Merlin says it in such a confident, open-handed way that he leaves no room for Arthur to protest it, deny, or even confirm it. Merlin doesn't need to hear it right now. And well, he really loves Arthur but that's besides the point. Now that Merlin is helping Arthur out of his shirt and finally they are naked, and alone, and they listen to each other's breathing for a long moment and it's all very simple really. Merlin feels very young and inexperienced because they've made such a mess until they've arrived to this moment.

Then he sees Arthur's wounded arm, the dirty cut, the blood dried all around it.

`Remind me to look at it later,´ Merlin says, feeling all court physician and protective, resting two fingers over the damaged spot, very softly, very lovingly.

Arthur takes his hand away, holding Merlin's two fingers in his palm, clutching at them and looking down at their hands together with a confused expression on his face, as if he can't decide what to do with them. Hopeless, Merlin thinks as he breaks free. He puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders and makes him lie down again.

It's a new, exhilarating feeling, to be naked over Arthur's on nakedness, skin on skin, not unlike how it feels, air charged with electricity, before a thunderstorm. A sense of anticipation. Fear. Yes, fear, but Arthur taught him to be brave and now Merlin will teach him back.

He leans into the hollow of Arthur's neck and kisses the curve where it meets shoulder. The muscles move subtly, as if arching up to Merlin's mouth.

`You idiot. No wonder you've been so tense. You've had all this bottled up and been moping, instead of talking to me.´

`I don't appreciate being called an idiot by an actual idiot. Not even in these circumstances.´

`Shut up, Arthur.´

He does. Or rather, Merlin makes him.

There's a confusion of limbs at first. They are both intensely young but their bodies seem to know their own way, fortunately. Merlin is inexperienced enough that he can be completely selfish and generous at the same time.

`I didn't imagine it being like this,´ Arthur ponders, breathing quickly now, his hands wanting to touch _everywhere_ but somehow too ashamed too and for the first time since they met, letting Merlin take care of all.

Merlin runs his tongue over his throat, turning Arthur a bit to the side so he can slip Arthur's leg over his shoulder.

`Too bad,´ he says, teasing Arthur. `You are the one being an idiot, so I'm the one in charge now.´

`Very well.´

Merlin pulls all his weight on Arthur for a moment, trying to figure out the last preparations. His body _knows_ what it wants, it's just that Merlin has a hard time translating that into actual movements. And Arthur is like a dead weight, just lying there, looking at Merlin almost judgemental. There's an awkward moment where everything stops and Merlin fears he is going to break out giggling and that's going to be all.

`Do you even know what you are doing?´ Arthur asks, impatient.

`Not really,´ Merlin replies, and grins.

There's that tone of voice, Merlin realizes, Arthur wants this as much and that somehow makes it all right, just fine, it makes him incredibly happy somehow. The way Arthur rushes to meet his kisses now, making an annoyed sound as if he himself couldn't believe it, Arthur, prince of Camelot, and here we are. And the way Arthur grabs Merlin's hair and pulls almost until it hurts, as if some secret fear suddenly got hold of him, and if terrified Merlin would just stand up and walk away from him. Merlin's heart aches a bit when Arthur does that.

So it's not as strange as it might sound, all this matter of titles, prince and manservant, when Merlin finally, sloppily and clumsily, fucks Arthur, _his sire_ , his prince, his future king. It's simple really. The path here was the complicated thing. Arthur and Merlin, that's the simple bit.

`What are you smiling at?´ Arthur demands, voice broken and put together from pain and desire.

`You,´ Merlin confesses, quietly, finding his way inside Arthur, _with_ Arthur with the same impatience and quietness as the fish that come back to the river each year.

Arthur shuts his eyes tightly.

Merlin stares down for a moment, something not quite beautiful but _right_. A sense of arrival so different than the _destiny_ the dragon usually talks about. Destiny seems too hollow a word for this.

It's almost unbearably odd to see Arthur just being Arthur, not Arthur _Pendragon_ , not a prince, not Uther's only son. It makes Merlin feel powerful in a way magic doesn't, it makes him feel powerful in such a way that he is trembling, his hips twitching and Arthur reacting in kind, strangled, high-pitched sounds from the back of his throat and his body giving way like a thick forest.

Not destiny.

This is something they've chosen.

 **XI.**

Arthur dreams that night.

He is a little boy and in the forest there's a clear. In the dark woods there's a moment of sunlight. He walks into it. Arthur is a little boy and Uther is teaching him to hunt. His hands are big and Arthur feels safe, in this clear, in this forest.

A happiness so very simple.

 **XII.**

Merlin can't seem to tear his eyes from the sleeping, harmless form of Arthur.

Princes have scars, he never knew that. He traces a faint white line above the joints in his shoulder; Arthur shivers in his sleep, as if touched by a soft, unexpected breeze. Merlin feels mischievous, pressing his fingertips once more, finding out just how much he can push without waking Arthur. He feels young with a suddenness that makes his lungs ache. Princes have scars.

And Merlin then feels the pressure in the tips of his fingers. Not Arthur's skin but something inside Merlin. Something powerful wanting to get free.

Merlin sighs and rests his forehead against Arthur's shoulder, letting the rise and fall of his body guide the way for Merlin's own breathing. Merlin trying to match their heartbeats. Merlin trying to keep them together for a while longer.

But he knows.

Merlin knows he cannot keep _this_ and the magic, he knows he will have to talk soon.

`There are so many things I have yet to tell you,´ says to Arthur without voice.

 _Soon_.

Merlin closes his eyes.

But he does not sleep that night.


End file.
